White blouses, pink lips and red wine
by keithandflack
Summary: Catching up with Stella Gisbon and her glass of wine, after the end of the 3rd season of the series. Catching up with Tom Anderson and his broken arm. Spector's shadow is still clouding their visions, making them more vulnerable. More desirable, too.


CHAPTER ONE.

A few glasses of wine were all it took. Alone, in the big living-room, she had been sipping her bottled scarlet and drowning thoughts. The nasty ones were hard to get rid of, as usual, especially with the night poisoning the windows, reminding her of the black bags they had put so many bodies in. The end of a case always had had a strange taste of hollowness, but this one desperately lacked closure. It felt like the all days all over again. The immoral frustration eating up the cold virtue, turning her into that angry little shit of a child once more.

She couldn't help Katie, and therefore, couldn't help herself. And to what end, anyway? She had seen the frigid flesh of those women, she knew what it meant to be dead. One look at the fridge, at the judging aspect of the 20 pounds bill. _He that loves not abides in death._

Would anyone care enough to bring her back from the dead? Would she be remembered, as a woman, as a soul, and not solely because of an astonishing career saving some and killing others? She had said she had friends and did. However she didn't need anyone to look at her iridescent cheek with pity and fear. Those who would understand she would not dare disturb for so little. Needing had been a forbidden word for a long time now, and although it made her forget about the very idea of having allies, it also made her feel superior to others. Freer, in some way.

She only responded to the desires of her insides. Anger. Fear. Lust. She was a woman of many sins when she allowed herself to want it all. Her senses ruled her brains, and so she fed them generously.

The phone wasn't far, doubt didn't come quick enough to her. Calling seemed unthinkable and, besides, she had the unprompted hands of a disoriented teenage girl. She texted him and killed all shame with another glass of 2005 Château La Fleur.

 _ **How's the arm?**_

The white sheets were already around her when he answered, but she kept the phone close, right where the diary used to be. She opened her eyes at the vibration the device made and looked for it blindly in the dark. All pale, white and blue in front of the small screen, fantomatic face in the night, she read. The arousal had left place for curiosity. The drunkenness had faded, the detective was waking up.

Tom Anderson, and James Olson before him, had been a temptation right from the beginning. His looks had surpassed his mind, at first. She had seen the young and desirable emergence of a man and had taken it, all for herself. The fantasy had quickly come to an end with Olson, and would still have if he hadn't had been killed. The guy wasn't right, he didn't understand, he wanted too much, too fast. They hadn't spoken much, which had felt appropriate at the time, but would never have convinced her had it been Anderson.

Anderson really was a spark. Of course, he made mistakes, and plenty. However, he knew how to learn from them. He was a curious kid, but not reckless, and he knew his place perfectly. Conversations with him brought things to light, untangled webs. His innocence was key.

She had once told him about his father, and he had listened. In his eyes, no pity, no unease. Then, she had taken his clothes off and his look was free of shame.

When questions were needed, they were asked. Anderson was practical, and had potential.

Reading the few words he had sent her, she wished she had called, for those inert syllabes couldn't have meaning when unspoken. _**How's the head?**_ She gave it a sad smile, slowly brushing her hand against a delicate cheekbone. Arms and heads had nothing to do with it. Any question would have been irrelevant. Nevertheless, they were two instead of one, and that made the night a bit fairer.

She fell asleep next to the phone, dreaming of empty cars and dead fathers.


End file.
